Empty Chairs
by thereichenfall
Summary: AU where Sherlock actually died in the Reichenbach. Set 35 years into the future with an elderly John Watson reminiscing on the 35th year of Sherlock Holmes' death.


The clock ticks impatiently and John sinks into the armchair, his old age weakening him. He puts his hands into a pyramid, resting his nose on the sides of his index fingers, much like his old friend, Sherlock Holmes, used to do. His mind races irritably, his patience waning as the seconds tick by faster and faster. The emptiness of 221B touches him in a way it hasn't for years. The loneliness escapes him and he wishes once again for the company of Sherlock. Not long after the fall, Mrs. Hudson had passed away from the post-traumatic stress, her body weakening under the emptiness that Sherlock had left in his wake. John's lips twitch as he remembers what Sherlock had said after finding Americans holding Mrs. Hudson hostage. _Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall_; and so it had. Molly had moved on with her life, moving to Brighton to take care of her cancer-ridden mother for the next year and Mycroft had retreated so far within himself that even Lestrade could not get him to escape his tortoise-like shell. Since that cold, gray day, John had isolated himself, not speaking with anyone, breaking up, once again, with Sarah. Even Anderson had felt the hole that Sherlock's genius had left, though he would never care to admit it.

_Oh, Sherlock_, John thought, running his hands through the thinning, white hair. His fingers trail the upper lip that had once housed a moustache, albeit briefly. John's lips twitch, remembering Molly's disgusted expression at their meeting at the Rose and Crown. She demanded that he shave it off at once. _Oh, Molly…my lovely, sweet Molly_. A tear rolls down John's cheek as he recalls his wife. Many, many years had gone along since Sherlock's passing and each day was a constant reminder of the hole that John's best friend, and his former lover, had left in his heart.

_"John…I'm a fake."_

_"Sherlock…"_

_"The newspapers were all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and," Sherlock's voice broke. "Molly…in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you…I created Moriarty for my own purposes."_

_"Shut up, Sherlock, dear God, shut up. The…the first time we met…the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"_

_"Nobody could be that clever, John."_

_"You could."_

John had never been able to escape the image of Sherlock let himself free fall of the top of St. Bartholomew's roof top. The image of his ebony curls matted with blood had always been too much in John's past 35 years, the weight of his partner's death taking a toll on his ever weakening heart.

_"Molly!" John called._

_"I just put the tea on, John! Dinner shall be ready momentarily," Molly giggled._

_John smiled and unfolded his newspaper and began to read the football standings. In a week's time, it would have been four years since his best friend had jumped off the roof of St. Bart's. Molly ambled in and set down a small glass of brandy. She places her hand gently on John's forearm._

_"I know how hard this is for you," Molly stated softly. "It'll be all right, we'll get through it, just like every other year."_

John's breath catches, a sob wracking from his throat as he strives to push every thought of his dear, sweet Molly and his beloved Sherlock out of his mind. He recalls the newspaper headlines, reading "Fake Genius Commits Suicide" and "Suicide of Fake Genius" crossing the headlines of the Post for weeks and weeks on end. He remembers Kitty Reilly's smug face after her expose on the late Sherlock Holmes. He remembers Mycroft sitting stone-faced in the crowd of John and Molly's wedding. He remembers the piercing gaze of Mycroft, and feeling slightly guilty as John and Molly left for their honeymoon in Barcelona.

_Shut up, John; all of this reminiscing will not make this year's anniversary any less unpleasant_, John thinks to himself, berating himself for opening his Pandora's Box of memories. He rises from the armchair, takes his cane in hand and slowly ambles his way around the flat, dust called up as its disturbed from its slumber. John shuffles his way around, opening the secret compartment that Sherlock kept his notes in. If he breathed deeply enough, he could still smell the essence that was Sherlock, his mind taking him to happier times.

_John and Sherlock amble up the staircase, lungs bursting with adrenalin at the thrill of the chase of this week's killer. Sherlock takes off his signature blue scarf and hangs it on the coatrack. _

_"Hmm…John, I deduce that we can do something useful with all of this adrenalin, can we not?" Sherlock's voice becoming sultry and seductive._

_John practically springs loose from his trousers at the thought of being bedded by Sherlock that night, but he keeps his hormones in check, telling his slowly throbbing cock to ease up. Sherlock stares at John, cold and calculating, taking every inch of him in with his mood ring eyes._

John slams his fist down onto the oak desk. "No, no, no, no, no," John spits out through his gritted teeth. "I shan't think of him, not anymore."

John's voice breaks as he opens the drawer to find his British Army Browning L9A1, the same one Sherlock used in his confrontation with Moriarty all those years ago. He touches the cold, hard steel and levies the weight in his hand. He presses the barrel to his head, and his sobs wrack his elderly body once more. "Sherlock, oh Sherlock, why didn't you come down from that ledge the easier way?" John moans.

_Sherlock traces his fingers lithely over the hard army muscles that John bears proudly to this day. "And I thought you weren't a soldier, Dr. Watson," Sherlock murmurs against John's blonde head._

_John's lips curl into a smile as Sherlock's graceful musician fingers trail softly down John's oblique muscles, his soldier standing abruptly to attention. _

"Oh god…why did it have to be Sherlock?" John cries aloud.

John stares at the empty wooden table in the kitchen that once housed laboratory experiments, his eyes caressing the emptiness of the refrigerator that once stored human eyes, tissue, and whatever the bloody else Sherlock Holmes would need to solve a case.

"Oh Sherlock, Sherlock…Sherlock…forgive me, Sherlock. Forgive me that I live and you are gone…oh Sherlock…"

John collapses to the hard, wooden floor…the gunshot ringing out into the ethereal silence.


End file.
